


A Derailed Train of Thought

by Kisleth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been distracted (quite thoroughly) from his current case</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Derailed Train of Thought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [odd-alyss](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=odd-alyss).



> For odd-alyss on tumblr

He doesn't quite know what led them to this point, which is astonishing really. He is usually a man of great details, of observation and deduction. But now, they are kissing and his mind is full stop. He is just...there. Kissing. Them. John and himself. His mind can hardly wrap around the thought and closer than the warmth pressed against his mouth. He can't analyze and it troubles him. So he concentrates.

John is shorter. Broader. Weathered. He has more lines on his face not from just age, but sun and stress and living a fuller life than most. He cannot see it, but he still knows it and it shocks him that it's because he is cupping it in his hands. His lips are rough from licking them often out in the cold and nibbling on them as he worries over Sherlock and over victims and over patients. The bits of rough skin tugs at his own lips and his stomach flips.

Well, it doesn't actually flip, as that is inhumanly impossible—when the person is alive at least—but it feels like it. John's warm hands grip his elbows, steadying him although he didn't think he was wavering. He hates not understanding, not knowing immediately, but his curiosity keeps him kissing his flatmate. It's John who pulls away.

He stares, a little bewildered. They're frozen there and the fact that this actually happened is stark against the contrast of reality. It must be face. Confronted. “Erm, John?” He's whispering. He feels a fool to whisper when they are so close and no one is around to hear, but he does it anyway.

“Yes Sherlock?” John's whispering too, now. His eyes dart over the skin that peeks through his pale fingers. Pale, pale eyes absorb all the details at such a closeness he had never looked at before. The lines tell him stories that he already knows, but he's like a blind man savoring the face of a loved one, his fingertips trail and trace over cheekbones and forehead and mouth.

“You...I...” His words failed him. He stops himself before he says any half-words like 'um' or 'er'. He's much smarter than that. He wants to ask where that kiss came from, but he doesn't. He can't. Won't. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth. He falters.

“The case, Sherlock,” John nudges gently. So, he's going to be like that. He's putting off examining this tidbit of their lives for something else. As much as he wants to grasp this moment before it slides betwixt his fingers, he lets it. There will be plenty of time to discuss this...whatever it may be...later. Preferably over tea.

“Quite. The case. Yes, where was I?” He turns about, back to his desk. That's right, it was John who interrupted his thought process, something he wasn't sure could happen normally. He flits through his notes, ignoring the avid replaying of that moment with his flatmate that his brain insists upon. He clears his throat and goes back to his original track and work continues.


End file.
